My mother passed away on Saturday, November 20th. The day I thought she would. She was 74 years young.
Mom had more courage than anyone I have ever known or witnessed. It was obvious that her body hurt with each tiny movement. She would have been more comfortable in bed but she never left her favorite chair. Early in the day the light grew too bright for her pale blue eyes. She asked for sunglasses. Her voice quivered. My sister, Brenda gently put them on for her.
At mid-morning, Mom asked to take her pill for depression. It was hard to comprehend that only four days earlier we were at her doctor's office. He prescribed medication for depression at her request. But he did tell her that it would take a couple of weeks before it started working. I did not want to give the pill to her. It was large: much too difficult for her to swallow. I told her that her doctor said to wait. "You can take it later Mom." There was a pause. I sensed her disbelief in my answer.
My mother grabbed my hand, squeezing it tight. With all her might she willedd herself to open her eyes. She stared deep into my soul. "Kim, what would you do?" she cried out. "Would you take it?" At that moment my heart felt like it had been smashed into thousands of pieces of jagged glass. I knew what she was really asking me. She wanted me to tell her if she would live long enough for her depression pill to start working. I struggled not to shed tears for fear she might see. "I would take it, Mom," I lied to her. "Let me cut it in half so it will be easier to swallow." How could I possibly tell my beloved mother that I knew she was in the process of dying; perhaps that very day? I put both halves of the pill into a spoon of chocolate pudding and fed them to her.
Most of my immediate family was with Mom throughout the day. We did not leave her. Days earlier I promised her that I would not. She was always afraid to be alone, but even more so during her last few days. I held her in my arms and asked her if she trusted me as she became more and more agitated. In breaking words barely audible, she whispered, "I trust you, Kim."
My mother never asked for her medicine. I was careful to let her know in advance whenever I needed to open her mouth so that I could drop the liquid under her tongue. Saturday was different. She asked for it. She asked for me to give her the medicine: the only thing to ease her pain.
We all know that God works in mysterious ways. Saturday was the most beautiful day. Bright and sunny with an aquamarine sky. Not a single cloud appeared above. It's rarely breezy in Arizona. But on this particular Saturday, the wind picked up just enough so that my mother could hear her wind chimes. They hung from my parent's patio roof, just outside the open door. She loved the melody of wind chimes, and proudly displayed her collection of them where she could hear them sing. Their songs played for Mom throughout the day. At one point, I stepped outdoors to pray. I looked up at the glorious sky to ask God for an ending of her suffering. At that very moment, the wind stopped. The singing songs of the wind chimes quieted in unison. A tiny, red-breasted hummingbird swooped down near my face. The miniature bird didn't stop to eat the nectar nearby as it normally would have. Instead, I felt it wanted to let me know that it was near me: a meaningful presence of God? The hummingbird was my mother's very favorite bird.
I gave my mother her last dose of medicine at 7:00 that evening. By then she was in a coma: still in her favorite chair. No one had the heart to try to move her. Not yet. Shortly afterward my family gathered at the dining table to eat some take-out food. The stereo softly played Alan Jackson's song, 'Remember When.' It was one of my mother's favorites with lyrics that were particularly meaningful to both of my parents. My sister, Brenda said a prayer before dinner. My father reached back to gently stroke my mother's hair. She turned her head slightly but seemed restful.
I know in my heart and soul that Mom heard us around the table: each one reminiscing in our own way. We took turns sharing our family stories and were even able to laugh a bit. These were the very last sounds my mother ever heard. Heartwarming sounds from her home and her family. I know she felt safe and loved.
Mom sat very near us, but for the first time during the day no one was hovering over her: giving her medicine; stroking her; shedding tears; whispering in her ear. Mom had the space she finally needed, if only for a few seconds. I believe my mother felt at last, that her family would be okay. She knew that (somehow) we would survive her passing. Mother was finally able to quietly let us go in a way that none of us were able to do for her.
At 7:18 my brother Dan called to check on Mom's condition. My dad spoke to him while the rest of us started to clear the dining table of dirty dishes. My dad stepped over to my mother to whisper in her ear that her 'baby' son was on the phone. In that instant my father cried out. "Oh my God, Dan. I think she's gone."
Hurriedly, we rushed the few steps to where Mother was seated. As soon as we looked at her we knew. Our precious mother was gone. I heard my father and my brother, Dave cry out. Brenda put her arms around her; weeping as she held her close. I felt my knees literally buckling. I collapsed on the floor next to Mom's chair and took her hand in mine. She was still warm. I kissed her over and over and told her how much I loved her. I couldn't stop. Soon, I asked my father for permission to remove the oxygen tube from her nose.
Finally...finally, my mother could breathe!
I can honestly say that my mom's last words to me were, "I love you." She worked so very hard to get them out because she had no air in her lungs. I will never forget their beautiful sound. They are here. In my heart. Forever.
Gently, I put Mom's favorite cream on her face to soften her skin. I held and kissed her hands, combed her hair, and covered her. My dear sister, Brenda applied Mom's favorite lipstick. Our mother still looked beautiful.
I will write more soon. At this moment I am in too much grief. But I have so much more to say. So many more words of tribute to my most precious mother.
Good-by Mom. I love you and will hold you in my heart forever and ever.
